


Christmas Angel

by okapi



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Advent Calendar, Aziraphale has Breasts but Other than That it's Reader's Choice, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Presents, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley to the Rescue (Good Omens), Mulled wine, My First Work in This Fandom, Other, Snogging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-18 09:01:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21824944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: Aziraphale's stuck atop a tree. Christmas fluff with a bit of snog.For MissDavisWrites' Advent Calendar Day Six: Angel.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 54
Collections: 2019 Advent Ficlet Challenge





	Christmas Angel

In the darkness of the early morning, the serpent glided gracefully up the tree. It wasn’t the Tree of Knowledge, just an ordinary spruce, and it wasn’t in the Garden of Eden, just an ordinary sitting room.

The snake ignored the strings of popcorn and the paper chains and the shiny orbs and the twinkling lights and headed straight for the tip top, where something very out of the ordinary was perched.

Dipping his wily head beneath lace and sky blue satin, the snake lifted the object from the tree. Then he descended, very carefully, carrying his prize through the house and out the dog door to the garden.

Anyone awake at three o’clock in the morning and looking onto the Finnegans’ garden would have seen two somethings very out of the ordinary: a snake transforming into a tall, dark-haired, man-shaped creature with good cheekbones, and a Christmas angel simply growing into a human-sized replica of itself.

The angel’s golden curls were piled high in a swept-up coiffure. The gown sported a drawn-in waist as well as billowing skirts and long, loose sleeves, both of sky blue satin. Everything was trimmed with white lace embroidered with gold. A snug bodice encased an ample bosom, and a décolleté was hidden by swathes of matching lace. Two short, clipped wings of gold silk sprang from the back.

Crowley couldn’t help himself.

_“How like a winter hath my absence been_  
_From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!_  
_What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!_  
_What old December's bareness everywhere!”_

Shakespeare always made Aziraphale blush, and he did so, very prettily.

“Crowley.”

“How’ve you been, angel?”

“I was good, then not so good, and now I’m much better. Thank you for rescuing me. I was afraid I’d be up there until New Year’s.”

“I went by the bookshop a couple of times. When you weren’t there, I thought I’d better check on things. How long have you been topping the tree?”

“Since Christmas Eve.”

“All that time with a stick up your arse?!”

“I was on assignment, and things went very well. Everyone who looked upon me was filled with the true spirit of Christmas, even the Finnegans’ Austrian cousin who visited. Now that young man will return to Vienna and recommit himself to his mediocre art studies rather than forming a club which might have become a organisation wreaking violent havoc on the world.”

“Oh, yeah, I know that bloke. Put a doubt or two in him at the pub around the corner.”

“Crowley, you didn’t!”

“Just one or two little ones.” Crowley shrugged. Then he changed the subject. “Are you going to stay like that, angel?” He gave Aziraphale’s ensemble an admiring up-and-down glance. “Not that I object. You look rather marvelous.”

Aziraphale plucked at the gown. “I thought about changing but…” He swished the skirt. “…it’s rather fun when I’m not impaled on a spruce.”

“Keep it then, but one alteration, if I may.”

Crowley reached behind Aziraphale, cut the straps which held the wings to Aziraphale’s back, and let the wings fall to the snow.

“Accept no imitations. The real ones are far lovelier. Now, back to the bookshop?”

He offered Aziraphale his arm, which Aziraphale took.

"Yes, please."

* * *

Everyone walking about London at half three in the morning assumed that the Christmas angel and the rock star were returning from a fancy dress party.

“Do you know what the best thing about this time of year is?” asked Aziraphale.

“Well, I know what your lot think it is,” replied Crowley. “But I can’t even say the word without wanting to vomit.”

“No, well, of course, yes, but what I was thinking about was the plethora of hot beverages about. There’s cocoa, of course, but also wassail, hot buttered rum…and so many recipes and names for mulled wine.”

“Well, I’m all for wine, whatever the incarnation.”

“Oh, really, Crowley? Because I had a lot of time to think, stuck on top of the tree when no one was about to inspire with true Christmas spirit, and I think I have the perfect recipe formulated. Shall I brew us some?”

“Go for it.”

And so Aziraphale launched into a natter about star anise and nutmeg and Malbecs and Syrah until they reached the bookshop.

“Home at last,” said Aziraphale as he swept into the shop.

Crowley followed. “What’s this?” he asked, nodding to the settee wedged in the back room. “New furniture? You haven’t had new furniture in a hundred years.”

Aziraphale quirked a smile. “Try it out.”

“Don’t mind if I do.” With that, Crowley launched himself onto it. He laid back and extended his legs. He crossed his legs and flipped from one side to the other. Then he sat up, exclaiming,

“This is has got to be the best bloody sofa—”

“Settee,” corrected Aziraphale as he selected a bottle.

“—that I’ve ever lain in. Huh. I think I could sleep an entire century on this baby. Especially if it was the fourteenth century.”

Aziraphale looked over his shoulder and beamed. “It’s your Christmas gift.”

Crowley tore off his sunglasses. “Angel, as perfect as it is, you know that a demon can’t accept a…a…you-know-what…gift!”

Aziraphale’s brow furrowed as he set about arranging the spices. “How about a mmm-mmm gift?”

“Oh, well,” Crowley’s face smoothed. “Mmm-mmm gifts are more than acceptable. You got this for me?”

“Yes, I thought, well, since you enjoy sleeping, it would be best if you had a very nice place to do so, just the right length, not too soft, not too firm, cushions just right for your head. And if that very nice place were in the bookshop, well, that’d be all right, too, wouldn’t it? Of course, you can have it taken back to your place, if you’d like.”

Azirphale looked a bit nervous. But not for long.

“I like it just where it is. Thank you very much. It’s perfect.” In as much as Crowley’s eyes could shine with delight, they did. He stretched out on the settee with his elbows bent and hands folded behind his head and watched Aziraphale chopping an orange.

“You know, angel, a first desecration wouldn’t go amiss. Like smashing the bottle of champagne on an ocean liner before the maiden voyage. I mean, after all, it is a vessel for a demon.”

“A vessel?”

“It’ll carry me right off to Dreamland, won’t it?”

Aziraphale smiled and carefully spooned the spice mixture into a little muslin bag. “I suppose so. So, what are you going to do, sprinkle a bit of sin around? Not too difficult, I imagine. It’s made for the sin of sloth.”

“Going big seven, are we?” mused Crowley. “Well, not gluttony. I’m not made for that. Anger and wrath, no, that might chip the handsome polish. Greed and envy, not quite my gig, either, really, though I spread enough around in the course of things. I suppose that only leaves…”

Aziraphale stopped stirring and looked over his shoulder with raised eyebrows.

Crowley tried to look innocent, which was ineffably impossible.

“I’m not going to _sin_ , Crowley.”

“No, of course not. Just going to help me break my sofa—”

“Settee.”

“—in.”

A silent but playful exchange of glances, of soft temptation and even softer yielding ensued, and when it was over, Crowley said in a low voice,

“Put the wine on simmer, angel, and come sit in my lap.” He patted his thigh.

Sitting in anyone’s lap in Aziraphale’s gown was easier said than done, but they managed.

“You have heaving bosoms,” observed Crowley as he snatched the lace from Aziraphale’s neckline, exposing a dark line of cleavage.

“I thought I’d try them out. Good?”

“Good,” said Crowley before yanking the front of the bodice down and burying his face between Aziraphale’s breasts. His nuzzling and humming and licking made Aziraphale giggle.

A warm, rich aroma wafted in the air.

Aziraphale made quick work of the cloth-covered buttons which ran down the front of the bodice, and when his chest was bare, he shook his shoulders for Crowley’s benefit.

“My gorgeous angel,” breathed Crowley, hunting beneath the skirts for something to touch.

“Oh, God.”

“None of that, angel, there’sss nothing ethereal about thisss.”

“Oh, Crowley.”

“That’sss better.”

Everything that made Aziraphale sigh, Crowley did again. And again.

Everything that made Aziraphale gasp, Crowley did again. And again.

Everything that made Aziraphale moan Crowley’s name, Crowley did again. And again. And again.

“Better than the top of a ssspruce tree,” murmured Crowly against Aziraphale’s breasts when Aziraphale was snugly impaled.

“So much better,” agreed Aziraphale with a shudder.

* * *

Much later, when Aziraphale dressed as himself, he ladled out the dark red brew into two mugs.

Crowley, who was blissfully extended on the settee, took his mug, then tapped it to Aziraphale’s.

“Here’s to the season of giving,” said Aziraphale.

“And to finding, or putting, an angel atop your tree,” added Crowley with a wink.

Aziraphale snickered. “Oh, Crowley.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
